The file arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, buried in an anonymous USB that smelled faintly of ozone. Mikaela found it on the bench behind the vintage record shop where she worked; someone had propped open the back door and left a paper bag with two cassettes, a Polaroid, and the flash drive. The Polaroid showed a rooftop at dusk, neon bleeding into glass. On the back, in careful script: 117x.
She plugged the drive into the shop computer because curiosity was the only thing that could make her dreary afternoon sparkle. A folder named "OG Fi" blinked into being. Inside: dozens of files, each tagged "-117x" and dated in a pattern that made no sense—some with years, others just numbers: 001, 037, 117. The first file she opened was a voice memo: a delicate, impossible vocal, like someone walking barefoot across a glass piano. A name lingered in the harmonics—Kim—but that could be any name, or none at all.
Mikaela always loved things that felt like puzzles. She dumped the contents onto her old mixing board, fingers itching. The tracks were rough, candid—breath at the start of a chorus, laughter in a verse, a producer's voice whispering "again, softer." The music didn't want to be polished; it wanted to be remembered. There were traces of late-night sessions, cigarettes in coffee mugs, and a persistent, gentle defiance threaded through every bar.
Word travels fast when it's fed by whispers. By the next evening, the shop's backroom was full: a college DJ with sleeves of band patches, a retired radio host with a memory for obscure hooks, and Lena—the owner of the rooftop from the Polaroid—who had once ran lights for queer club nights downtown. They listened in the dim, faces lit by monitors and the glow of the streetlamp outside.
"This is unreleased?" the DJ asked, like he already knew the answer but wanted the sound of someone else saying it aloud.
"No label, no metadata," Lena said. "But these vocal takes... they're raw. Whoever recorded this didn't think anyone would hear it."
They called the collection "117x" because the label repeated everywhere: scrawled on notes, stamped on a weathered notebook, hidden in a photo frame. It felt like a ghost sign—something left to be found.
The tracks became a rumor that grew teeth. People came to the shop to trade stories: an ex-engineer who swore one session had been the evening an important promise was made and then broken; a drag performer who hummed the chorus like a prayer; a street artist who painted quick, neon portraits while the songs looped in her headphones. They all claimed the music did one thing in common: it made them honest.
As the weeks passed, Mikaela noticed patterns. The unfinished bridges hinted at different directions—one raw vocal over ambient synth, another melody leaning toward a disco bassline. Hidden between the takes were messages, tiny vocal fragments that weren't lyrics so much as notes to a future self: "breathe," "start over," "tell them." Whoever had recorded the files had left scaffolding for songs that never had the chance to stand fully formed.
They debated what to do. Release them? Keep them secret? Sell them to the highest bidder? The shop's backroom had all the urgency of a courtroom delivering a verdict. Some argued that music belonged to listeners; others insisted unreleased tracks were private, like letters never meant to be read. Kim Petras Unreleased -117x Tracks With OG Fi...
Mikaela had an answer that felt right to her: curate, not expose. She began with gentle edits—no auto-tune, no headline-grabbing reveals—just rebalancing levels and stitching a few takes into coherent pieces that honored the original breath and the blemishes. She assembled a short cassette: five tracks, collaged from different 117x files, and stamped a single word on the J-card: OG.
They distributed twenty copies, slipped into hands at midnight sets, taped to lampposts, and tucked into record sleeves at shows. Each cassette traveled like contraband in the city's pockets and jackets, seeded across neighborhoods. People who found a copy treated it like a message meant for their ear alone. Bars played it at last calls; rooftop parties folded its choruses into the night. It did what music is supposed to—made strangers feel less alone.
Not long after, a private message arrived on the shop's burner number. No longer anonymous, the sender wrote in fragments—thank you, be careful, don't sell. They signed only with a small star: *. The message said nothing about ownership. It was neither claim nor plea. It read like the relief of someone who had finally heard a piece of themselves acknowledged.
The tracks kept migrating. In basements and late-shift diners, people hummed the odd phrasing that had once been an abandoned bridge. A lyric tattooed itself onto a protest sign. A queer collective used a loop as the backbone of a benefit mix. The songs, once orphaned, folded into other people's stories.
Months later, when winter softened and the rooftop in the Polaroid was dusted with the first pale snow, Mikaela climbed up and laid the Polaroid on the ledge where the city could see it. She thought about secrets and stewardship and the permission to make music into something that saved you, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds. She thought about the people who had left pieces of a life in a folder named 117x, trusting the world to find the right ears.
Someone called down from the street below as she descended. "Hey—did you ever find out who OG Fi is?"
She smiled, the kind that happens when a melody resolves itself finally, quietly. "Some songs don't need a name," she called back. "They just need someone to listen."
The tracks kept circulating—unclaimed, unmistakable, alive. And every time a new listener pressed play, a small unfinished thing finished a little more, until it belonged everywhere and nobody at once.
I’m unable to provide a review or summary of the specific file or collection you mentioned (“Kim Petras Unreleased -117x Tracks With OG Fi...”), as it appears to refer to leaked, unofficial, or unauthorized content. Sharing, promoting, or reviewing leaked unreleased music typically violates copyright and artist rights. If you’re interested in Kim Petras’s official discography or legitimate unreleased tracks she has chosen to share, I’d be happy to help discuss those instead. Short story — "Echoes of 117x" The file
The recent online surfacing of an archive containing 117 unreleased tracks by Kim Petras
, complete with high-quality "OG" (original) files, represents one of the largest leaks in pop music history. This massive collection offers a rare, behind-the-scenes look at the evolution of Petras' artistry, spanning her early days as an independent "BunHead" artist to her more recent major-label output under Republic Records Key Components of the Archive
The leaked collection is notable not just for its volume, but for the inclusion of master-quality files that allow fans to hear the music exactly as it was recorded in the studio. The "Limbo" Era
: A significant portion of the tracks dates back to the era of her shelved debut album, Problématique
, which Petras herself famously told fans to "listen to the leaks" of in 2022 when its release was stalled by her label. Collaboration Demos
: The files include early versions of tracks that eventually surfaced on her actual debut, Feed the Beast
, as well as high-quality demos of unreleased collaborations with artists like Paris Hilton Charli XCX OG Files & Stems
: Unlike typical low-quality snippets, these files are often "OG" masters, providing superior audio fidelity to previous bootlegs found on platforms like SoundCloud. Context and Significance
This leak arrives amid Petras' ongoing public frustration with her label, Republic Records "Coconuts" (OG Demo 1) – Before it became
, where she has recently requested to be dropped to regain artistic control.
Kim Petras Demands to Be Dropped by Republic Records | TikTok
Long rumored, now confirmed. Petras recorded a full German version of an unreleased track called "Plastik." The OG file shows she co-wrote it with her brother, and the lyrics discuss fame as a synthetic construct—years before "Plastic" became a theme in her work.
"Get ready for the most epic leak ever! 'Kim Petras Unreleased -117x Tracks With OG Fi...' is making rounds and we can't help but speculate about the treasure trove of music that might be hidden within. With Kim Petras' history of pushing boundaries in the music industry, these unreleased tracks could offer a fascinating glimpse into her creative process and artistic evolution. Whether it's an early demo or a completely new genre-bending hit, the anticipation is building up!"
Only a minute-long snippet had surfaced previously. The full track runs 6:12, with a two-minute instrumental bridge featuring a piano solo. Fans have noted this OG file has a different key change than the version Petras performed live in 2022.
The release of 117 unreleased tracks inevitably raises questions. On one hand, the Kim Petras fan community (the “Bunheads”) has treated the leak as a time capsule—celebrating the raw, unfiltered artistry that major labels often sand down.
On the other hand, these are copyrighted works. Kim Petras herself has rarely addressed leaks directly, but in a 2022 interview with Rolling Stone, she stated: “I put out what I want you to hear. The other stuff? It’s like a diary you didn’t have permission to read.”
Since the 117x leak, no legal action has been publicly taken. This is likely due to the difficulty of prosecuting anonymous forum posters and the fact that most files are unregistered demos. However, streaming algorithms have begun taking down fan-uploaded podcasts that feature these tracks—suggesting the rights holders are watching.
This is the heart of the leak. Following the official release of Clarity and Turn Off the Light, Petras was writing constantly. The OG files from 2018-2019 reveal over 40 unreleased songs produced by Dr. Luke, Made in China, and Vaughn Oliver. Highlights include:
One of Petras’s most famous leaks. The 117x version includes a sexually explicit second verse that was rewritten for label reasons. The production is noticeably grittier, with distorted 808s dominating the chorus.